Hello My Worms, I Wanted To Inform Ya'll That I Am Actually Still Alive. Yes, I Too Am Surprised. Sorry

Thanks now I gotta cry in class

🥲

Don't you just love it when you accidentally write a drabble in your English class? Cause I do!

Reader meets Ghost for the first time:

You stand waiting for your meeting to begin as a man of great height steps up beside you. His tall, naturally looming stature immediately makes you feel as if you should not be here.

He doesn’t move. Stance still and stiff as if the weight of his mass is causing him to tense up just to stand up on his own two feet.

Of what you can see of his face, the hood of his hoodie covering most of his head, you can see a multitude of faint lines covering the small strip of skin not shielded away by his black face mask with a faded skull motif. Even the outline of his nose is bumped out uncomfortably. Perhaps he broke it. And even with the hood covering most of his features, you could see a little spike or two for light blond hair poking out here and there.

His black hoodie was slightly oversized, yet you could see parts of his frame holding the fabric of the hoodie taut around his arms especially. The bottom of the hoodie met snuggly with the hem of his trousers, a well-loved pair of dark navy jeans.

As you realise you’ve been staring for too long the mysterious figure turns slightly, eyes glaring a frozen hole in the centre of your face. The pools of deep bourbon grab your attention as they sit below long blond eyelashes, “If you continue to stare. You won’t like what I’d ‘ave do next.” A deep gravely British voice threatened. He turns to leave back now facing you as he calls over his shoulder, “The meetings in 5.” All you can do is stand there, mouth slightly a gape, staring at his back as he walks towards a building on base; the back of his hoodie reads: “Task Force 141”.

The image of Ghost sitting in a corner and chewing on that thing like a lil gremlin got me cackling

ghost is a smoker. soap knows this.

how could he not? he’s heard ghost excuse himself plenty of times for a smoke break, has seen that the man always has a light on him, has even witnessed ghost standing off on his own with a cigarette balanced between his lips.

except… come to think of it, soap has never actually seen him take drags of those same cigarettes. and every time anyone has asked to bum a cig off ghost, he always comes back with some retort like get your own or i don’t share.

but obviously he’s a smoker, right? because what else could it be?

well, soap discovers exactly what when he sneaks out for some fresh air one evening, and manages to spot ghost before ghost spots him. using that advantage, he sidles up to the lieutenant, giving ghost barely any time to snuff out his cigarette and all evidence of his smoking before soap’s appearance beside him.

but then soap hears a crunch and is absolutely horrified when ghost takes the cigarette into his mouth and fucking chews.

“ghost?”

“hm?”

“what the fuck?”

as it would turn out, ghost is not a smoker—at least, not anymore. he just always has a pack of candy cigarettes on him that have helped him curb the real habit.

the discovery makes for a good laugh later, but the relief of learning that ghost was not, in fact, eating a real cigarette is the only thing soap is willing to concern himself with for the time being.

Helloooo, here’s a new sketch and this time young Sirius Black from Harry Potter / Marauders! Hope you like it :)

Here’s the template I used

Shattered

Ghost and his mask were one. Everyone knew that. Sometimes you thought that he couldn’t take it off if he wanted, that it had grown on his face. But on the most recent mission, things went south. There were more hostiles than you expected, and Ghost got overrun. He was a big boy, but even he couldn’t hold his ground against seven attackers. They knocked him to the ground, beating him until he was unconscious.

By the time you and Gaz finally managed to get through to him, he was covered in blood and bruises. His mask was destroyed. The skull sewn on the balaclava was broken into several pieces that were scattered around him. While a medic rolled him on a stretcher and carried him away with Gaz‘ help, you crouched down and picked up the shattered skull.

Ghost was brought to the infirmary immediately, he had a cracked rib and bad concussion. You cradled the pieces and put them on the desk in you room, carefully putting them back together. Luckily you had a bottle of glue laying around.

After gluing the pieces back together, you decided to paint the cracks a dark black. The mask was broken but now it was whole again. Just like Ghost. Well, for the first part. You wondered if there was something in this world that could slot the pieces of his broken soul back together. He’d never be the same again, just like the mask. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t bee good again.

You were a bit nervous when you knocked against the door. „Yea?“, his usually deep voice was even more gravelly now. It sounded… Weak. You slowly opened the door, looking at the figure laying in the bed. He was pale, his head bandaged, his hand gripping his injured side as he sat up. Even here he had on a black surgical mask.

„I uh, wanted to see how you’re doing“, you said, the nervousness in your voice more audible than you’d like. „Had worse“, he mumbled, suppressing a wince as he shifted. „Yea…“, you didn’t quite know what to say. „I got something“, you reached inside your duffle bag and pulled out the fixed mask.

Ghost froze up immediately as he saw the mask. You got nervous. What if he didn’t like it? What if he’d get angry you painted his mask? You heart beat so fast you’re sure he’d hear it. „It was broken, I fixed it“, you hurried to explain yourself. „I can see that“, he said without any expression or hint as to what he was thinking. „Why are there black streaks?“, he asked. Shit. He didn’t like it. He probably hated it. You shouldn’t have painted it, you shouldn’t even have touched it. „I can get them off, I‘m sorry“, you immediately started to start scratching at the paint, trying to get it off.

„Stop.“, he commanded. You stilled and looked up at him. „Don’t. I like it.“, he reached out. You gave him the mask. „Turn around“. You did as he said.

When you were allowed to turn back, he looked like himself again. He looked like Ghost. The black streaks formed an intricate pattern, making the mask look even more intimidating than it already did. He grabbed his phone and looked at it in the camera. „It looks good“. You held your breath. He liked it. He thought it looked good. That was unexpected, to say the least. „I‘m glad….“

You turned around, opening the door. „Wait“, he said. You looked at him. „Thank you, (name)“. „No problem“

The black streaks had formed a small heart on his forehead.

I'm ganna upload a few art pieces I made before finals kick my ass

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

part two here! / part three here

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

I'm gonna try writing some things for the other boys, but honestly I've never played Cod, so I apologize in advance for making their characters not sooo accurate. Currently listening and watching their cut scenes to get a feeling of their personality, wish me luck

At my fire department, most of us have nick makes

We got Jost, which is a normal name, but the problem was that during the first few weeks nobody knew his real name, so they just called him Jost

Then we got tree, which is a 6'5 guy, pretty self explanatory

Then we got glow stick, because that dipshit once asked our chief if we could carry glow sticks to house fires so we could see in the smoke. No. We can't.

Next is dinosaur, cuz his first name is Joshua, like the dino Joshi from the video game

And we got onion, because no one could pronounce his Romanian name properly and he loves onions

My lovely nick name is tits, since I was the only girl in the squad

tw: simon's mean and a sexist.

Simon who doesn't like you. He respects Laswell, who's intel is vital to their missions. Price as the leader of the Task Force. Gaz because he's proved his mettle time and time again, and Soap whose stubborn self has burrowed under Simon's thick, knotted flesh.

Not you, though.

You've yet to do anything substantial.

As a sniper, your job is to aim and kill; provide overwatch. Why Johnny insists on giving you praise for doing what is required of you is beyond him.

You aren't taken to below-zero temperatures as emotional support. Why you're taken at all is also another mystery.

Without your gun, you're utterly useless. And Simon proves it, time and time again during training spars at base.

He comes at you as if you're the enemy, with dangerous precision and quick movements. Simon gets enjoyment out of seeing your eyes widen when he moves, like an injured gazelle who's just spotted a ravenous lion.

His grip is bruising— the force that he slams you to the ground with devastating.

Simon can hear the air punched out of your lungs once your back hits the mat, and the time it takes for your vision to sharpen, he's already pinning you down viciously with a knee to the sternum.

Useless. Women don't belong in combat. He's seen that big brute from KorTac. He'd crush your pathetic little head under his palm, he'd kick your ribs hard enough to crack and the splintered ends pierce your lungs.

He'd kill you without a hint of effort.

And Simon intends to remind you that there is no place for weak, bitty things like you in the front lines. Unless you're to be used as a distraction by flashing your tits at the bad guys.

Out of place.

Every time you go up against him, he uses his size and strength against you, just like every other person will. He launches you across the floor with a single arm, only to watch you struggle to get up and continue this sham of a fight.

Confidence born of ignorance.

As if sheer will would ever beat physical prowess.

If your feet won't touch the ground, then the rest of your body will. Through spilled blood and bruised flesh, may you learn.

He whistles at Johnny, gesturing at him to take his place, only for the end result to be the same, albeit much more gently.

Simon watches you through half-lidded eyes as he leans up against the wall. You fight against inevitability.

Pathetic.

And then one day, you come at him with a snarl on your lips. Blunt teeth that have never had to sink into someone's neck and rip a throat out, out of utter desperation. An unblemished face that's never felt the sting of a sharp blade as it's sliced open contorted into 'rage.' Frothing at the mouth like a lap dog with rabies, barking out words that are as empty as your future.

A forceful wave of his hand abruptly halts you mid-sentence, causing you to involuntarily flinch in response. Good.

"If ya have a complaint, take it to Price. I am not obligated to humor your stupidity."

He spins on the balls of his feet, leaving you to sputter indignantly.

Then on a mission, you get shot. Simon grabs the handgun that's holstered on his chest, and places it in your bloodied hands. "Keep them off of us, or we're both dead!"

His fingers are curled around the thick strap of your tac vest as he drags you toward the LZ; his pace never faltering even while getting clipped by stray bullets. But you?

He'd think you got your legs cut off. Wailing like a cat in heat over a wound above your hip. A clean in and out, nothing vital hit.

Simon has seen Gaz fall out of a helicopter, dangle from a rope, and still use his gun. He's seen Johnny cross a town full of Graves' Shadows bleeding from his shoulder, armed with nothing but the makeshift weapons he crafted on the way to the church. Price inhaled toxic gas and made it out just fine. Even Laswell was taken hostage and didn't crack under the pressure, going as far as killing her captor with her bare hands.

And you're decomposing in front of his very eyes over a superficial wound.

Landing at base, he walks out without a glance back and heads straight for Price's office. He didn't join the 141 to babysit anyone, least of all someone who belongs in either intelligence or a kitchen.